


The Untitled Jon and Sansa Project

by everybreatheverymove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, F/M, One Shot Collection, Tags to be added, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8575030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreatheverymove/pseuds/everybreatheverymove
Summary: A series of canon and AU prompts from my tumblr.





	1. A Little Bit of Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has risqué dreams about Sansa but in the waking day she keeps saying specific (otherwise innocent) phrases from his dreams, turning him into an awkward, horny Jon.

"Jon." There's a moan, and it takes him a moment to register where it originates from.

When he does finally spot her, she's stood naked - safe for a pair of fucking laundry day knickers - and she's in the doorway.

With a hand on her abdomen, she calls out to him again, slides her fingers lower as the seconds go by.

"Come on."

He's by her side in an instant, hands tangling in her long hair and legs walking them backward until she tips over the side of the bed.

He (barely) towers over her on the mattress, but her back is arching and her legs are shaky beneath him.

"This is a bad idea."

"Nobody will know." She declares, tries to convince him by running her hands down his chest and slipping them past the top of his jeans.

She pulls on his zipper and pops open the button with her free hand, gasping against his lips when her left hand wraps around his length.

"Somebody's ready."

"You telling me you aren't?" He plasters a grin on his lips, lowers himself until his face is before her panties. Hooking his fingers down the sides, they pull down quickly, dangling from one foot as he pushes her legs apart. "See? You're all wet."

"I am." He can hear her giggle, almost moan when he kisses her there and runs his thumb along her lips. "You need to do something."

"Like what?"

"Whatever. I don't know." She shrugs. He feels her legs move against his shoulders. Moving herself onto propped up shoulders, Sansa swallows a breath, runs a hand through his hair. "Lick it."

"Oh?" He does so, complies and presses his tongue against her for the slightest of moments.

"Again. Lick me again."

"Are you sweet?"

"Why don't you taste me and find out?"

Devouring her to completion doesn't take as long as he would have hoped, because Jon is waking from his slumber after what could only be minutes into this sheer pleasure.

His alarm clock sounds, blares until he's awake and lucid.

It happened again. Another night of imagining what Sansa Stark tastes like and another morning of desolation when he realises it was all a dream.

He feels like a teenage boy again sometimes, not the man of twenty-nine who has one night stands and pretty girlfriends when he wants them.

No, he feels pubescent. And it sucks. And he hates it.

Mostly because he's craving something he can never have, never touch.

\----

"They're too moist, no?" She stabs one in the middle, pulls out her knife, "It's all wet." With a pout, she settles her cutlery down and huffs. 

Pulling the cupcake from the casing, Sansa doesn't waste a second before she's biting into the treat, her teeth sinking into the crumbly centre as though she hasn't eaten in days.

With a moan, her eyes close and her tongue darts from past her lips to moisten them. And Jon has to force himself to hold down a groan. This is torture.

"So fucking good." There's a smile on her lips, and she nods her head calmly, appreciatively. "You should try it."

Jon's brows raise then, eyes widening when she extends her hand, her half eaten piece of cake in her palm. "I don't have much of a sweet tooth."

"Please." She brushes his comment off, "You know you love a good finger." She half grins, half frowns. "Those chocolate ones that come in little packets? You devour those in seconds. So if you can eat chocolate, you can eat this."

She's determined, with her hand held out and her head held high.

"Here." She drops the cake back down onto the board and instead swipes a finger into her homemade buttercream.

She'd tried baking a two-tier cake for Robb's thirtieth as a surprise for her brother, but her cake-making skills are mediocre at best and Jon now regrets having replied to her text.

'Can u come over? Need ur help!' She didn't elaborate and he didn't need her to. He'd foolishly agreed and sped down to her apartment in a hurry. It sounded more urgent than it turned out to be.

So, here he was. Stuck in a cramped kitchen with his best friend's little sister, trying to pretend he hadn't been having very vivid dreams about her for the past two weeks.

She holds out her index finger, the magnolia coloured paste glistening along the tip. She wiggles it around, smiles as it approaches Jon's lips. "Try this."

"No."

"Just lick it." She forces, "Just a little."

"Sansa."

"Lick it off me!" She shoves her finger in his face, almost touching his chin with her nail.

Her eyes dart to his mouth for the briefest of moments, but he doesn't miss her slight falter.

"Sansa."

"I'll tell Robb."

"That I wouldn't lick your finger?" Jon swallows, slides his hands even deeper into his pockets if he could.

"That I baked a cake for his birthday and you refused to try a sample so if it's gross and we all get food poisoning, it'll be your fault."

Jon sighs, wraps his fist around her fist, keeps her hand steady. "You tried it yourself."

"So?" The redhead frowns, wiggles her pointer finger around once more. "How am I supposed to know if my sweet treats taste good? I need you to taste them."

Treats, Jon, not teats.

"Fine."

His lips are curling around her fingertip then, tongue tracing the buttercream and trying his damned hardest to ignore all taste of her skin.

"Does it taste good?"

"Kind of."

"'Kind of' isn't good enough." Sansa shakes her head, picks up the remnants of her discarded cupcake and forces it against his lips. "Eat it."

For fuck's sake.


	2. All That She Wants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa are trying for a baby. She's ovulating and Jon has to rush home from work with Robb to go make babies with her.

'Get here ASAP. Oven's pre-heated n ready :p'

With a slight grin, Jon types his reply in a hurry before he's sliding his phone back in the pocket of his jacket flung over his seat, and he's rubbing his hands down his thighs.

Robb looks up from his folder across the shabby desk, all decked out with half empty mugs of cold coffee and stacks upon stacks of paperwork.

They're lawyers, partners in criminal defence. It's hard work. And they have to be in court tomorrow.

"Where you off?" Robb leans back in his seat, taps the tip of his fountain pen against the oak table with a crinkle of his nose.

Jon glances over at his longtime friend then, all shiny blue eyes and trimmed beard. It reminds him that he needs a trim, too. Preferably before tomorrow's hearing. But he's got other stuff to do first.

Thinking back to his text message, Jon contemplates telling him the clearcut truth.

"Dearest brother-in-law, your sister wants my dick to make a baby. See you later."

That wouldn't be awkward at all.

Before he can think of what to say however, his phone is vibrating again, lighting up inside the pocket of the jacket he's slipping over his arms.

He pulls it out, bites the inside of his cheek to stop a grin from appearing.

'Bring food 2 babe. Building up an appetite here'

"You aren't cheating on San, are 'ya?"

"No!" He sounds guilty, probably, so he explains his stun at the question. "Far from it."

"What does that mean?"

His phone rings but he ignores it. He'll be out the door and on his way home to her very soon.

Robb has dropped his pen on the desk, finally quitting his annoying tapping, and Jon slides his glasses further up his nose with a gulp.

"She wants a baby."

They're married. They're allowed. Robb's gonna be an uncle after all.

"I see." The brown haired man nods, pauses with a smile. "And the texting?"

"Sansa's... ovulating."

"Oh." He grimaces, shakes his head as though he didn't want to know. "Oh!"

"Yeah."

It isn't Jon's phone that blares then, but rather Robb's, and Sansa's face appears on screen.

He shoots the other man a glance before picking it up with an amused look, "Hey, sis."

"Is he there?" She means, wants Jon.

"Yeah. We're busy." His pen is back in his hand and Jon sighs at the sound of the tip-tapping on the wooden desk. "Why?"

He jangles his keys in his hand, waits for his wife and her brother to finish their little chitchat. He can hear her on the other end.

"I'll come down there, Robb. And I'll make him take me on the desk whether you're th-"

"Okay, alright!" He resigns, nods in Jon's direction. "He's leaving now."

Jon can't help a smirk as he leaves the office.


	3. When This War is Almost Won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wall fell and Sansa was captured by the Night King (he wants her to be his queen or whatever) when Jon is away South. The moment Jon learns about Sansa, he doesn't think twice and is ready to face all the seven hells just to get her back.
> 
> When the Wall falls and Jon is away South, Sansa is captured by the Night King; the moment Jon learns of her capture. POV-oneshot.

He doesn’t know if his heart has ever beaten so fast, has ever thumped so rapidly beneath his chest. He doesn’t know if his mouth has ever ran so dry, if his darkest thoughts have ever left him so silent.

He thinks that maybe the last time he felt this way was when he had been allowed a second chance at life, at fixings his - and everyone’s - mistakes. He thinks that maybe the warm blood pumping through his system has only ever flowed so easily, so thirstily upon revival, resurrection.

But this is no resurrection. This is retribution.

_“Lady Sansa Stark was taken in the night by the enemy. Lord Robett Glover and Lord Wyman Manderly are preparing your resting army to bring her home. Princess Arya Stark shall rule over Winterfell as Lady in her absence.”_

This is retribution for his continued fight against the cold winds, against the winter’s truest threat. This is retribution for challenging a stronger, greater leader. Whether he chose this path or was forced upon it matters not. All that matters are those words.

_Lady Sansa Stark was taken in the night by the enemy._

He reads them over again, and once more for good measure when they still refuse to sink in, to be accepted into his heart.

He doesn’t remember the last time his heart has ever beaten so fast, has ever thumped so loudly, so heavily beneath his chest.

Perhaps it was upon his awakening, his rise from the land of the dead where he had once so longed to remain.

Or perhaps it had been when he’d seen her in the courtyard at Castle Black all those moons’ turns ago.

Matted hair and quivering lips and freezing cloak, she was home. She had been his reason, to smile and get up and fight for as long as he could. A charging cavalry and a madman had never made his blood run so warm, only cold.

He had naively promised to win their home back , and foolishly sworn he would keep her safe, protect her. Despite all of her rebuttals; he would take her home and keep her safe.

He did, for a time. And it was sweet.

It had been so sweet, to see her, to see family, to provide protection for someone who had forgotten how to feel safe. She hadn’t needed it, not truly. She was stronger than she looked, calculating and wise where he was reckless and brave.

She had been home, though, and he needed her. He needed her to stay home, and stay safe, to never leave him again.

The ache he had felt upon seeing her again overwhelmed him, overshadowed any small sense of longing he ever felt on the occasion he had missed her.

They were never close, were never true siblings. Until the world robbed them near blind and they were all each other had left in the world.

His heart never thudded at the memories of their childhood, never ached at the thought of her being gone. She had been a distant memory, once upon a time, little more than a reminder of what was once home and familiarity. He hadn’t longed.

But she had appeared, all scarred and tired and lovely and lonely, and he had found home, had patched over a wound he hadn’t known to be bleeding.

He had promised her that they would return home, and they had done so as a pair. He had promised to keep her safe, and he had done so as a fool.

_You went South. You left her._

He had followed council, advice. He had ventured farther south than he would have cared to trek, and paid a price for it.

_Lady Sansa Stark was taken in the night by the enemy._

He doesn’t want to know how it happened, how a creature so blue and cold and cruel managed to steal the one thing that had soothed his soul for so long. He doesn’t want to know how someone so inhuman, something so fantastically malevolent had stolen his heart’s beat.

He lived because she breathed, they won because he kept his promises and she made some of her own. They won because he is no one without her, without his family, without the Lady who is half-sister, half Queen to him.

She is to rule, to watch over their home and keep it safe in her womanly fragile but ruthlessly agile hands. She is to smile because he had kept her safe, because he kept his promise. She is not to be put in harm’s way and submit to yet another brute, to a being so cold he is true ice.

Her icy stare will match the Night King’s, surely, but her pessimistically romantic heart will only haunt Jon, will only remind him of his shattered promise.

“I’m going back.”

He has been South for too long, has been ignoring his greatest responsibility in favour of this kneelers’ one. His home is North. His heartbeat is in sync with the breaths that escape past those lips of hers, when the solar is freshly warm from an argument he has let her win. His pulse is steady when he is home, when home is her, and he wants his pulse to slow.

He lived because his heart beat to the rhythm of her breath, and his heart is aching.


	4. We're No Longer Separate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five word prompt: "And where do I go?"

It seems like forever ago that they learned of Robb's engagement.

He'd called Sansa late on a Saturday night, when she was feeding her dog Lady after just getting getting home from work at the store.

He'd been loud and boisterous, and she could just about make out the sound of Talisa's voice piping up in the background.

"We're engaged! She said yes, San!"

She was happy for her brother, truly.

After losing their parents in that awful accident years ago, he'd been the one to take care of everyone. Her big brother became her guardian, almost a replacement father of sorts.

Granted, he was only three years her senior and just as young at heart when he wanted to be - the cheerful phone call at eleven o'clock on a Saturday night a clear sign of this - but he'd taken on a lot of responsibility.

He deserved nice things, good things, and Talisa was just that. She was beautiful and witty and one hell of a surgeon. How Robb had met her and they'd started going out, Sansa had no clue.

But it didn't matter. He was happy, and he deserved to be, and she was glad of it.

The same couldn't be said for herself though.

No. Though she'd dated a few guys here and there - including a few assholes who verged much too close to abusive in college - there was never anybody who had managed to really tug at her heart and rip it from her chest.

Strong analogy, sure, but she was a passionate person. And if nobody could make her want to fall to pieces from crippling love and devastatingly tender touches, then they weren't right for her. She knows her worth, knows what she wants and what she deserves.

That isn't to say she hasn't tried to find someone worthy of her heart and affections. She's tried, almost succeeded a couple of times in the past. But this time, with this guy - who adorably calls her My Lady when he dotes upon her, and once (unsuccessfully) attempted to bake a lemon drizzle cake for her birthday because everybody else had forgotten - she may have gotten it right.

The only problem was that he was pretty unwilling to come clean about their relationship, and let it known to family and friends and foes alike that they were in fact of couple.

It wouldn't have taken much, Sansa reckoned. He could have just sent a quick text to Robb, or hell even coughed up to Arya on their weekly get-togethers down at the shooting range.

But oh, no. No, Jon wasn't sure how they'd react, and therefore refrained from even trying to tell them at all.

_I've been dating your sister for seven months and we're planning on moving in together in the new year but I've been too much of a coward to tell you. Really sorry about that. Cheers for the pint, though._

She's had a good mind to do it herself sometimes, but he's resolute that one day he'll tell Robb. The conversation always ends the same way though; she tells him to grow some balls, he laughs it off, and they ignore the topic until it's brought up again.

Only this time, Sansa is fed up with waiting.

It's Robb's rehearsal dinner, and she's sat alone at the bar because the meal was rather bland and she needs something tasty.

The glass almost shatters in her hand when he approaches her, stood at her side with one hand in a back pocket of his trousers and the other sliding along the cool bar in front of them.

His thumb taps along her knuckles and Sansa pulls herself away, carefully holding onto her glass.

She's pissed - as in angry, not drunk - and he knows it.

"My brother is getting married tomorrow and I don't have a date. Or, rather I do have a date, but he doesn't want to admit that he is my date. Or, maybe I'm his date and he just wants to deny that instead."

She tilts her head, sips a little bit more of her drink and then sighs aloud. Scratching at tangled red hair at the base of her neck - tangled from sweat, sweaty from exhaustion because she's been on her feet all day - Sansa licks her lips and finally shoots him a glance.

"Do you really think now is the best time?"

Jon's eyes are dark, deeper than their regular shade of brown she knows so well and loves so much. His voice is hoarse, and she knows he's had more than a little bit of whiskey poured down it.

"No." She nods once, frowns as she does it. "I think the best time was about three months ago, when he asked who were bringing to his wedding and you shrugged. I think that might have been a pretty good time to tell him that you had a girlfriend he already knows and loves."

"That's the point, Sansa." He doesn't sit, doesn't pull out the vacant bar stool next to her and plonk his backside down to talk this out.

He just stands, and clasps both hands in front of him. His watch is shiny - it's expensive and a secret gift she bought him for his thirtieth birthday, though he'd fibbed when asked and said a distant uncle gifted it.

He'd returned the gesture with a daintily elegant pair of emerald green earrings for her birthday, and she'd lied to Arya when asked and told her sister that an elderly client handed them down to her as present for her kindness.

"He knows you, and he loves you, and he's your brother." He frowns now, all moody and brooding, soft brows knitting.

"And you're his best friend."

"And I'm his best friend, and I've known you all for a solid fifteen years now. Look, it isn't that I don't wanna tell him. I do." He's sure of his words, or at least he sounds it. He's all Northern accent and quiet determination. "I want to tell him. But we've known each other since we were fourteen, Sansa. That's half my life. Telling him I've been shacking up with his little sister isn't going to go down well."

"Is that what we're doing, then, shacking up?" Her brows raise, and her teeth chew at the insides of her cheeks for a moment, "Here I was thinking you loved me and wanted to prove it. Well, bugger me."

"Sansa."

"Do you want me to tell him? Seems I've got bigger metaphorical balls than you've got real ones."

She downs the rest of her drink at that, and stands up on shaky legs. She isn't drunk, not even tipsy. But she's been sat for a while after not being sat all day, and she's uneven.

He holds her upright, one hand on her arm, gentle and reassuring.

"What exactly would you like me to tell him, tell them?" He nods his head towards her family, Robb by the large window with his fiancée at his side, he and Sansa's siblings bickering in the corner over something silly.

"Tell him the truth. Tell him what you told me. Tell him that you drove me home after work one day because I felt like shit, and we ordered fish and chips and mushy peas, and I asked you to never leave. Tell him that you promised me you'd stay and you did and I kissed you. Tell him that was seven months ago and you haven't doubted your decision for a single day."

"Just like that?"

Maybe she got through to him. Maybe suggesting that she take the reigns and do it herself forced him into action.

"Just like th-"

"What are you two whispering about?"

Robb is beside them, leaning over the bar to retrieve a fresh bottle of wine. It's unopened and heavy, but he's smiling over at them as he strains to reach it.

It's only when he stands straight and looks back and forth between them expectantly that Sansa finally registers his question.

But before she or Jon can answer him, Talisa is stepping into place beside her groom and smoothing her hand down his chest.

"I spoke to the boys. Bran says he's fine sitting by the window table. If he gets bored, he can just stare out at the trees, apparently. Rickon doesn't care, I don't think." She smiles, brown hair swinging as Robb pulls her closer.

"Window table?"

Talisa's eyes widen at the realisation, "Oh, yes. We've had to change a few things at the last minute. Your aunt Lysa changed her mind and she's decided to come after all."

Robb shrugs, adds, "I think she has a new husband she wants to show off or something." He rolls his eyes, swings the wine bottle in his fist. "You guys have been moved, too, San. Hope you don't mind."

He looks at Jon then, who only nods and glances across at the redhead.

"Yes, Arya's going over to the second table, with your uncle Benjen and the like. I tried to get her onto the girls' table but she said, and I quote, "'I am not going there!'." Talisa holds up a finger pointedly to copy Arya.

Sansa blinks, swallows a breath behind a smile with a brow in curiosity, "And where do I go?"

"Where do _we_ go?"

It's half-statement, half-question, and there's a smile dancing along Sansa's lips as she turns her neck to face Jon.

She reaches for him, grabs his hand and places it on her hip, urging him forward. _This is us, and we are a we._

They have to come clean eventually.

There's a strange look on Robb's face, somewhere between confusion and disturbance, but Sansa only grins and grips Jon's hand tighter.

"Where do _we_ go?"


	5. Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In desperate need of some quick cash, Sansa engages the help of her brother’s card-counting friend Jon to help her rip off a Las Vegas casino.

“New dress?”

“Yes.” Rubbing her hands down her sides, along the shimmery material of her black dress, Sansa glances down at her body with a smile. “I bought it this morning with that money you won me.”

Jon can only nod at that, though his telling eyes betray him, and Sansa can spot his struggle from her place five feet away.

She crosses the small distance between them; dragging bare feet along the cool carpet, as though to memorise its texture and feel.

They’ve got a small room at the hotel; one Jon had fought against, one Sansa had fought for. She’d won, of course.

And they’d been handed the key to a room with one double bed and one couch (which Jon had designated himself to sleeping on).

Stopping before him, she places one comforting hand on his shoulder, and one on his chest for support.

“I know I said it would only be a one time thing,” she begins, tries to flick wavy hair over her shoulder, though no strands obey.

She licks her lips, moves her hand on his chest to his shirt collar and replaces his grip on it.

“It’s been five days.”

“And we have yet to drain the pool of opportunity.”

He sighs at that, brushes away her hands when she tries taking over doing his tie. He pulls on the cloth, and shoots her an annoyed look.

“You can’t drain the pool if they keep filling it back up again.”

“No, I can’t.” She knows she’s using him - or rather, his brain - but half of her can’t seem to care. The other half, though, is her conscious. She’s letting the little voice on her devilish left shoulder win, “But you can.”

“I can only fool them for so long, Sansa. Nobody can win so big, so fast, so frequently.” He warns her, and turns to sit on the bed to lace up his shoes.

She likes getting dressed up, pretending they’re fancier than they really are. He likes to pretend she didn’t pack a gun for protection (because it’s Vegas), and keep it stored in the small safe above the closet.

“Maybe I’m your good luck charm.” The redhead attempts, tries to lighten the mood.

She only needs a few more grand, tops.

“You aren’t my anything, Sansa.”

Well, that stung. Taking a step back, the woman checks over her appearance one last time, choosing to ignore his comment.

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like what?”

“My dress? I picked it myself.” She plucks at the skirt, wiggles the smallest of dances.

Jon seems to smile, in a way she is slowly growing accustomed to, and he nods once, “I like the lace part.”

He leaves her at that, picking up his keys and room card.

Glancing down again, Sansa admires her new dress; more specifically, the lace mesh covering her cleavage.

With a grin, she follows after him, picking up her clutch off of the table, “Perv.”

-

“Okay. Don’t turn around,” Sansa trails off with one eyebrow hitched and her glass of tequila swirling unsteadily. “There are two men watching us.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised.” He tells her through gritted teeth, moving to wrap his hand around her wrist after shoving the just-won tokens in his jacket pocket.

It’s stuffed, and he can tell she wants to cash out already.

“They were there yesterday, too.”

“Yes, Sansa,” he pulls her closer, and she can smell the whisky on his breath, “because you have me ass-fucking the entire place, with a target on my forehead. And one day, they’re gonna turn around and shoot.”

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” She stiffs a laugh, and whines when he tugs on her hand, encouraging her to follow him.

He’s walking away them from the men watching their backs, and Sansa struggles to keep up with him once he reaches the elevators.

“Wait- No. We have to cas-” she starts off, waving one finger around to point, glass now firmly placed down on a nearby cart.

“Tomorrow. Right now, we have to go.” He’s firm, and she kind of likes the determination.

Jon has always been quiet, sitting in the corner and doing his maths. That’s all she mostly remembers; their teen years when he came to hang out with Robb and helped her younger siblings with their homework.

They don’t talk much, but this ‘trip’ is definitely having a positive effect on their communication.

“Well,” they’re on the elevator before she can finish her sentence, and her attention is drawn down to her arm. “You can let go of me now.”

“Not yet.”

With an amused roll of her eyes, she bounces from one leg to the other uncomfortably, feet sore from her heels.

When the lift dings on the fifth floor, Jon is once again pulling her behind him; only he loosens his grip and slows his pace when she tugs at his rough hand.

“Shit.”

“Wha-”

Suddenly, her back is being shoved against the wall beside them, her right shoulder blade digging into someone’s doorway.

“Forgive me.”

She doesn’t question his intentions until he’s kissing her, and it isn’t gentle. What the fuck?

Eyes open, she only briefly lets herself admire his face before her gaze is pulled towards the two middle aged men down at the bottom of the hallway. Shit, indeed.

“Hmm.” Maybe faking a moan will help them?

As soon as he’s pulling away, Sansa swallows the quickest of breaths before she draws him in again, fingers firmly grasping at the lapels of his jacket.

She kisses him this time, forcing his mouth open with her tongue, running her hands along his chest until they clasp behind his neck.

His hair is smooth to the touch, and Sansa thinks hers must feel the same because he groans when he tugs at her locks, fingers all tangled up in her soft red curls, thumbs sweeping across her cheeks.

She allows her mouth to hang open when he pulls away again, trailing his lips down her jaw and neck to carry on their charade. It seems to work, Sansa thinks, throwing one leg up at his side for good measure.

He grabs her, calloused palm roughly curling around the softness of her thigh, bared by her hitched dress.

“I told you I was your lucky charm.”

The woman grins, leaning her head back against the doorframe, adding to the most public display of affection she has ever put on. Is it even affection, though? Or just a trick? She can’t tell.

Jon seems to be playing along with her added level to their game, though, because he hums against her cleavage and she can feel his hot breath on her skin, “How lucky are you gonna make me, woman?”

“That depends on how good you fuck me.”

Maybe she crossed a line with that one.

Or maybe not.

The signs are conflicting, because Jon seems half turned-on, half confused as hell by her request.

“Hey!” One of the men is shouting from down the corridor, and Sansa has to dare shooting him a look over Jon’s shoulder.

She grips at him, waits for the man to interrupt them completely.

“Take that shit to your room!”

It’s a simple demand, really, and Sansa lets out the smallest of laughs once he’s walked away and out of earshot, rounded the corner with his colleague.

“What the hell was that?”

“Which part?”

Jon is wiping her lipstick from his face, and she instantly regrets getting so into their trick.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s… I pushed you against a wall without warning you. I’m sorry… too.”

“I didn’t mind.” She shrugs, tugs at the length of her dress so it hangs properly down her body. “I quite liked it.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Including the nosy security guy?”

“Including the nosy security guy, but especially the part where it seemed like you were gonna fuck me up against a wall.”

“Sansa.”

“Jon.”

His hand is wrapped around her wrist again then, but he waits for her to lead the way down the hallway until they stop outside their door.

“Am I still not anything to you?”

“You aren't anything to me, Sansa. You’re everything.”


	6. The Beast Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the Brothers Grimms' "The Summer and the Winter Garden", or alternatively a take on "Beauty and the Beast".

It has only been some days since he took her, since he made good on a promise that her father could not keep.

She had been traded for a rose, an exquisite white rose that now withers away in a vase on her bedside cabinet back home.

Her father had stolen it, you see; trespassed on land that was not his own, and robbed it from right beneath this beast’s nose. But it had been her fault all along, she supposes.

She had asked him for three items on his last venture into the town. A dress, which he had bought finely made and fitting. Shoes, which he had found tasteful and practical for his beautiful daughter. And a rose, freshly sprung and watered.

The one small, or at it seems grand, problem was that no roses grew in the winter. And so she had almost foolishly charged him with a rather grueling task. She would take it back, if only she had known what would entail.

By some ungodly misfortune, her father had happened upon this same dark castle sitting lonesomely at the edge of the village.

He had been enchanted by its gardens, somber though they may at first seem. One side of the castle was shrouded in fallen snow and snappy torn leaves. The other side was more colourful, capturing the essence and feeling of a fresh summer’s day.

He had only meant to linger for a moment, just enough time to pluck a flower from its root and feign recognition of such an act. Her father was no thief, but he had thieved now and the black beast had not liked that one bit.

“Give me back my rose.” He had warned her father, stunned him with his sudden presence into a dead silence. His legs were covered by ripped pieces of cloth, his clothes grim and dreary, but the thick hair beneath was plainly visible. “Give me back my rose.”

Her father had paid only little mind to the beast’s face, scarred and flawed.

“Please. I must have this one rose for my daughter. She is the most beautiful daughter I could ever have. She will be saddened if I do not return with it.”

“Let her be sad.” The beastly creature of a man had offered, but then he changed his mind, “Or take my rose and I will take your beautiful daughter as my wife in seven days.”

He hadn’t wanted to plead, so instead he had accepted a proposal he assumed would never take.

Returning home, her father had chosen to not let Sansa know of this arrangement, for truthfully he thought little of it.

Seven days passed, and on the seventh day when her father departed for the town once more, Sansa had been tending to that day’s supper.

The beast of a man had knocked, rapped against the door only twice before letting himself in and tossing the young woman over his shoulder. She was nowhere to be seen when her father returned.

Having grown quite easily accustomed to her new surroundings, Sansa had thought to make the most of her situation.

She had sought out this black beast, walked the castle time and time again in search of him. But he was nowhere to be found when she wanted his company, and she could not find a safe way past the gardens for he had caged them in quite thoroughly.

The summer garden’s flowers were still thriving, blossoming into the evening and morn again. But the white sheets of snow falling over the winter garden had begun to encase the whole castle, and little by little the summer garden’s colours began to fade.

To her fortune, she had not yet been forced into any marriage or sacred act by the beast, but she figured that time was drawing closer. He had scarcely spoken to her since he had let her fall onto the fresh tiles of his grand hallway, muttering and mumbling about her father and his broken promise.

He affords her dresses and whatever else she may need to feel at ease, and she rewards his kindness with smiles.

They have shared only few meals together, and she has tried one too many times to earn the right to stare at his scars. His face is mauled, seems to have been savaged by some wild animal. A wolf, she guesses.

There is a deep scar running from his left eye brow down to his cheek, and one lightly circling around his right eye. His lips are bruised, constantly beaten and battered and she does not know how this happens. His teeth appear sharp, like those of lions or tigers. His hands are always covered by his gloves, but they are quite large and remind her of a mammal’s. His legs are thin, all bone and knee, but the hair that grows there is thick and matted.

The hair that graces his head is curly though, all black and soft on the eye.

He is not entirely handsome, but he is not ghastly to look upon either. There is something about him.

He is not charming, but instead brooding and solemn and on the occasion that she can find him, he barely speaks. She does not know who cooks for them, who cleans the castle. It seems they are a lonesome pair.

She has had to gather everything she can about these circumstances she finds herself in from the mirror. He had shown her this mirror as reassurance, you see.

Missing home, Sansa had cried for days and forced an emotion from him. He had shown her a small mirror in return, and through it she had seen her father in their home. He had been weeping, grieving his loss. The red eyes did not hide his illness, though.

“I must return home.” Her father is not well, and she is saddened by this.

This beast she has fallen into a quietly comfortable habituation with, whom she surmises is named with a man’s name beginning in J from a locket she found in a locked draw, grants her permission to return home to visit. But she has to promise to return.

“Seven days. You must come back in seven days.” He calls after her, and his quiet melancholy voice is harsher, desperate even. She promises.

When four days have flown by, her father passes. He caught a cold from the town, and a lack of treatment and aiding had caused him to give into the sickness. She is deeply dismayed by this, and the seventh day passes without her ever noticing, too preoccupied with her grievances.

On the eight day, she comes to realise that she is missing the black beast. She has grown fond of him, in a strange way, and she finds herself wishing that every mirror could show her his reflection.

Her own mirrors are not magic though, and she finds herself saddened at the thought of him. Sensing that he too has fallen ill somehow, she departs for the castle with haste after only a moment’s thought.

He is nowhere to be found though, once anew. And the bright side of the castle that once shined from the sun’s rays is darkened, all coated in snow and crunchy leaves. The castle itself is coated in blackness, once gold furnishings suddenly dull and plain. Everything is black, except for her black beast whom she cannot find.

Wandering into the winter gardens, she allows a fresh dusting of snow to coat her cloak and hair as she searches for him, digging through dirt and unorganised heaps of fallen leaves.

Sensing something she cannot quite put her finger on, she rummages through a large stack of old wooden logs. They are damp and soft from the snow’s frosty bite and beneath them all she finds him. He is cold and unmoving, and he is dead.

Saddened once again, she runs the pads of her fingertips over the scars on his face, loathing their depth whole-heartedly. Leaning down to express her grief, she kisses his frozen left cheek, right at the bottom edge of the thicker scar. She kisses it again, for pity’s sake, and he shifts beneath her body.

Backing away, she falls onto her knees as he awakens, his face slowly transforming into that of a handsome man. The scars of his face turn from deep gashes to thin lines of liquid blood, his lips curl as he attempts to talk and they shade into a healthier pink colour.

She does not apologise for breaking her promise, for returning to him a day late. If she had, perhaps she would not have discovered his true nature. He is no black beast, but a dark prince by the name of Jon.


	7. Write Down Your Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One 'accidentally' send an explicit letter to the other.

"That was not intended for you." She brushes a few strands of hair behind her ears, retains her composure despite trembling lips, "Well, it was. But you were never supposed to find it, much less read it."

"You addressed it to me directly, Sansa."

He's holding the letter between two fingers, his thumb seemingly tracing along the side of the fine paper. _Don't cut yourself_ , she wants to warn him.

The edges are torn, almost as though the letter has been folded and unfolded, and folded again before being forced into someone's pocket.

Jon has crumpled it up, and opened it again to read it once more.

"Anybody could have found this, Sansa."

She loathes when he speaks her name, with an authoritarian tone to his soft voice. It's soft, but it's as though fresh gravel is being tread upon when he talks, and Sansa gulps.

She does not need a guardian to sanction her behaviour or remind her how to act.

"Only they didn't. You found it. And that's not nearly as bad someone else laying eyes on it." Gods know what might have happened had one of her ladies or Baelish's inconspicuous spies found it.

"Aye, I found it. Left on your desk for anyone to take."

"Why were you in my chambers?"

"I was looking for you. Ser Davos suggested we discuss the Knights of the Vale as soon as possible."

Brushing this aside, she takes a tentative two steps forward, arms folded over her chest as she walks.

"How many times have you read it now?"

"Twice. Twice more after first finding it. I had to make sure I wasn't imagining-"

"You had to make sure every single detail was just that; a detail. You had to make sure I left nothing out."

She ignores his tired sigh, lifts a brow when his gaze flickers up to meet her own and he hand clutches at the note.

"Did I miss anything then? Was it detailed enough for you, Jon?"

"Explicitly."

"A strong word."

"Aye, but no stronger than those you wrote."

Cunt. Cock. Come for me.

"Would you have preferred I downplay my affections, my desires?"

"I would prefer you not write them down at all."

She's closer to him now, and - unlike last time when he had come to her and shown her why he was crowned King - this time, she is the one holding all the power.

"Shall I speak them to you then?"


End file.
